On Bended Knee Rated MA Version
by PheonRen
Summary: King Alistair's marriage to the female noble Warden... including the wedding night. Extra Fluffy romance, by request. m/f
1. The Wedding

**Part 1: On Bended Knee**

Anora Mac Tir had sent Erlina, her servant, to request that Saraiah come to her chamber in the tower where Alistair had enclosed her. Saraiah didn't want to deal with this right now. She had too many things to think about… she was, after all, going to be getting married in a month's time.

Which, as weddings and things went, was pretty much tomorrow.

And now Anora wanted to bother her with something. Surely it would be something that Saraiah would regret even going to the tower for, but she would give the other woman the benefit of the doubt—for now.

"What do you want, Anora?" Saraiah asked, knowing that she didn't sound in the least bit agreeable—which she wasn't.

"Saraiah! You came! I thought you probably wouldn't, but I had hoped you would." Anora said, her hands weaving in and out of each other in their customary manner. "I had hoped to talk to you about your wedding, actually."

That gave Saraiah pause. "My wedding?" she blurted in surprise.

"Indeed. I know that your mother died, and I'm so sorry for your loss. I also know that you know few if any Noblewomen here at the courts," Anora began. "And I also know that there have been many who continue to pressure Alistair to execute me."

She turned back from where she'd moved to gaze out of the window. Looking long and direct at Saraiah, she said then, "And I know that you have had a large part in putting those suggestions to rest.

"As such," she went on, moving away from the window and walking over to sit on a high bench, tucking her slippered feet beneath her, "I'd like to help you plan your wedding in thanks. You don't have much time until it's here, and even less time to do the actual planning between all of your duties."

"Why should I trust you?" Saraiah asked, feeling anxious and yet hopeful. She really did desperately need the help.

* * *

**Part 2: On Bended Knee**

"You probably shouldn't, Saraiah. In your position, I would never trust you. But you're not me, and I do have a conscience, you know. I think it's easier for you to believe in people's consciences, than it has been for me. I saw what my father did, and how remorseless he was in his pursuit of the throne. It made me hard, and I recognize that."

She then held up a card from the table in front of her. It had a beautiful dress on it, the standard lavender color of the typical bridal gown, with the pink trim expected. "You must make your own decision, Saraiah. But I'm here, and I appreciate being still alive, and knowing that I will be bearing the heir to the throne. I know your plans for me, and I am grateful for them."

Saraiah didn't know how Anora knew, but it didn't matter. They would find a suitable Noble and Anora would marry and her child would be the heir. It was unlikely, thanks to the taint, that Saraiah and Alistair would ever have their own heir—and they didn't want to anyway. Pregnancy would detract from the hard work ahead of them.

But they wanted this interlude. This wedding. And Saraiah was just woman enough, despite being one of the first woman Wardens in Ferelden, to want a beautiful, breathtaking wedding.

"Alright," she said, "I will let you help me. But I fear that I will look washed out in the lavender gown," she sighed.

"Actually," Anora said placidly, "I agree with you. In fact, I've been looking them over for days, and I've had someone make up a marker-board for a dress that I think will suit both your coloring and your life much better."

She pushed a card across the table towards Saraiah. On it was the picture of a beautiful burgundy dress, adorned with pale cream piping, rich cream embroidery, and pearls. Catching her breath, Saraiah said, "That's beautiful! Extraordinary!"

"I do have good taste from time to time," Anora said with a smile, her hands in perpetual motion in front of her.

* * *

**Part 3: On Bended Knee**

They sent for the dress to be made, and while the tailor's young apprentices were there measuring and taping and poking, Anora continued on with thoughts about the wedding. She showed Saraiah various hot houses, and the kinds of flowers that they grew.

Together, after much discussion, they settled on a deep green color, accented with teal, to go with the burgundy of the dress.

"The thing you want to remember here, is that every Royal so far has been married in Lavender. People love tradition, but because you are both Wardens, which is as far from tradition as you can get, you want to win them over with something that brings out the beautiful possibilities of wandering from tradition. Your future with the Nobles—and thus the Kingdom—rests entirely upon the impressions you give them in these early years. You want a wedding never to be forgotten."

Anora was right, of course. But Saraiah despaired at having the time to plan it. She decided against her better judgment to let Anora help.

Over the next few weeks, she continually returned to the tower. The discussions were frequent and sometimes long. But Anora was flexible, suggesting things that would still satisfy from a visual standpoint, even if they weren't Saraiah's first choice.

It was, surprisingly, a very positive experience for Sariah.

Alistair, for his part, went willingly enough along for the ride… he would wear Caillan's armor. Although at first he and Saraiah had both thought this a horrible idea, they'd gone together to discuss it with Anora.

And her point was that Caillan had been loved—although not as a ruler so much as an icon—and wearing his armor would remind people that Alistair was his brother. Not only that, but it would additionally remind them that these were Wardens.

Saraiah argued at first that she didn't want her wedding to be political, and she was going to have to kiss Alistair at the wedding. But further discussion soon had her changing her mind.

Alistair would definitely have to wear Caillan's armor. No doubt about it!

* * *

**Part 4: On Bended Knee**

"I thought the same at first, Alistair. But Anora's right, it will be political no matter what we do," Saraiah argued, her hand curling through Alistair's hair as she sat on his lap, leaning against him.

"But armor? Really?" he sounded almost like a lost little boy. "I always dreamed I'd get married in shorts or something—assuming I got married at all. Can't we run away and elope? All of this wedding talk has been making my stomach feel sick. I don't want to stand up there in front of the whole country!"

"They are going to love you, as much as I do," Saraiah told him. "You will shine like the sun. And just think of it this way. Except your head, they'll mostly just see armor—Caillan's armor. You're reminding them of his sacrifice and his heroism."

He grumbled a while longer, but agreed to do it. He would wear the gleaming golden armor. They would stand together at the foot of the throne, and there they would be wed before the Maker and all—well, much—of Ferelden.

She sighed against him. "I was always so caught up in preparing to become a warrior. I wasn't the one who dreamed all my life of my wedding day. I never thought anyone would love me, since I was so far out of the norm."

He started to say something, and she shushed him. "But now that it's here, and I'm about to have the biggest wedding in the country, I find myself as giddy and scared as any woman. I want you to know that I'm glad it's you. I can't imagine myself getting through this, or being nearly so excited, with anyone else in the world."

He pulled her down for a lingering kiss. "I love you," he told her, then he stood up, helping her rise. Looking down into her eyes, he said, "I am the luckiest man in the world, and not because I have to be King." He ran his knuckles down her cheek.

* * *

**Part 5: On Bended Knee**

"I know she's technically our enemy, Alistair," Saraiah told him. "But she has been very helpful, and I need someone to stand with me. I would prefer that it be Wynne, but as you and I both know, no matter what we do, this is ultimately political."

"Can we even trust her out of the tower?" he asked, his arms crossed in stubborn resistance.

"We'll have more archers than spectators, Alistair. Of course we can trust her." Saraiah was losing patience with the conversation.

"If we're going to support her future child as our heir—and we agreed we are—then we should show political support and forgiveness towards her. A united front. And the people love her. Showing her that forgiveness on this day, of all days, would truly be the best choice."

He didn't agree. She could see it in his face. But then, he hated the political maneuvering and often plainly didn't understand it.

"This is your wedding, Saraiah. I'm there to marry you, so you do whatever you wish. Okay?" he pulled her close and sighed against her head. "I want you to be happy."

"Thank you, Alistair," she told him, tears tugging at her eyes.

It was less that Anora would be there—she could do without that, despite the unquestionable fact that she'd been instrumental in making this a wedding to remember—it was because he was giving her something she wanted, with his usual shy, awkward romanticism.

She'd never have from him the sort of romance that legends were made of. No flowery phrases or debonair flirting. He was simple and uncomplicated.

Which was what made moments like this so perfect. Moments when he would fall all over himself trying to explain giving her a rose, or moments when he would awkwardly give in to something he didn't understand, just to please her. Never realizing it was all being done for his own benefit, not hers.

It was sweet, endearing, and beautiful to see him step so far out of his comfort zone. To know that he loved her enough to do it, that he loved her enough to tell her he was falling for her, even though she could tell he was about to fall apart trying to do it.

It was these memories—the times he most wanted to forget—that would be inscribed on her memory for the rest of her short life.

* * *

**Part 6: On Bended Knee**

It happened suddenly. She knew it was coming. She expected it. But it was sudden, regardless.

She was being stuffed into her wedding dress. The soft fabric swirled around her, the pearls shining in the light from the window. The day was perfect, the sun gleaming down across the land with cheerful intensity and just enough breeze to keep things cool without blowing hats or flowers away.

When the servants at last wandered out, leaving her with her hair perfectly arranged and with her jewelry just so—she'd never liked jewelry, but this was so perfect!—she stood staring at herself in the polished metal sheet on the wall.

She couldn't believe the woman staring back at her in the pearl choker and dangling earrings was really her. She couldn't believe she'd ever look like that in a dress, even that one.

"Maker's breath! Am I dreaming? Pinch me quick!"

She turned to smile at her betrothed. He looked incredible as he always did in the gleaming gold armor, which had been carefully repaired and polished.

"Alistair, I just want you to know that I'm the lucky one. I love you so much, and—" he stopped her with a kiss.

"I know, my love. I know." He smiled.

Then he turned and walked away. She knew by his change in demeanor that he meant to ask her something difficult or say something he would struggle with saying.

"I want to give you something," he told her. "It's probably the most precious thing I own, next to you. Not that I think I own you! I don't… I mean…"

"Alistair," Saraiah admonished him.

"Right. Anyway. So… I want you to have this." He placed it in her hand. "Do you recognize it?"

She did, and it took her breath away almost entirely. It looked small and pathetic there in her hand. Broken, it had been repaired—badly. It hung from a simple chain of basic, imperfect silver. It was his mother's Chantry amulet.

Tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, Alistair, I can't take this, this is so special to you!"

"I want you to have it. I don't expect you to wear it today. I know it will ruin your finery. But maybe after…"

"I will wear it today, Alistair." And she would. And she'd wear it until the day she died—and hopefully afterwards. She ran into his arms, sobbing.

"Whoa, I didn't mean to upset you right before you have to go out there," he said, patting her awkwardly.

"I'm not upset," she hiccupped.

"Uh, okay," he said.

"It's beautiful," she told him. Then, pulling herself together, she turned around. "Latch it, please."

"No, you can't wear that today. People will notice," he said.

"I don't care. Let them notice, let them talk. It's the most precious thing I own," she said. Then she grinned wickedly at him, "Except you, of course."

Laughing back, he obeyed, his hands warm on her neck.

* * *

**Part 7: On Bended Knee**

She stepped out into the sun, and the crowd turned towards her. Taking a deep breath, she walked towards the dais where the Reverend Mother waited to perform the ceremony. Silence fell, and she walked calmly along what seemed like the longest road in history—the small, short walk along the cheerful sidewalk to the palace garden's gazebo.

When she got there, the music started, and then it was Alistair's turn to walk down the avenue between the columns of roses along the dark green carpet.

Every eye watched him as he glittered towards her, solemn and dignified. The music was soft, muted, and soothing. It was meant to accent his walk, not take away from it.

They were there to see their King be married, and Saraiah was giving it to them. They were there to see their hero, to see the man who would carry them forward. Anora had argued that she, Saraiah, was the hero. But no matter what, Alistair would always be her hero, and she wanted the wedding to reflect that.

So he marched up the walkway, watching her intensely. That he only had eyes for her was all she needed. She also had eyes for him, and only him.

When he arrived, he took his gauntlets off, and carefully placed them on the small table intended for the purpose. Beside him stood Arl Eamon, who held Saraiah's ring. Anora held Alistair's for Saraiah.

The Reverend Mother spoke to the crowd, reminding them of the sacredness of the union of marriage. She reminded everyone present of the deeds of the couple about to be joined—not a normal part of a regular ceremony, but integral to this one.

Then it was time for vows.

**

* * *

Part 8: On Bended Knee**

Saraiah said hers first.

"Alistair, I will love you until the day I go to the Golden City. When I arrive there, I will love you still. I will stand by your side until we are parted by death. You are my partner, my friend, my hero, and my King. You always tell me that you're lucky, but I am truly the lucky one. You're a good man, and I don't know how I won you, but I'm glad."

She slipped the ring onto his finger, trying to hold back the tears.

Then it was his turn.

To her surprise, he knelt down on one knee in front of her. "Saraiah, I never dreamed this day would come. I found the most amazing thing in the middle of all of this. I promise to cherish you the way you should be. I promise to fight with you, rule with you, and to be faithful to you until I die. Thank you for loving me, and for seeing me as a man, not as a future King or even as a Warden. Thank you for loving me, Alistair. I will repay you by loving you the same way for the rest of my days."

He slipped the ring onto her finger and then kissed her hand, standing up and facing the Reverend Mother again, his own eyes suspiciously bright.

The tears escaped and Saraiah didn't care. She did love him. Maybe she always had.

The Reverend Mother spoke again for a few minutes, and Saraiah finally understood why. As a spectator, it always seemed long and tedious, but now she knew that they were giving the bride time to recover from the tears brought on by the vows.

Then they were declared husband and wife.

Alistair pulled her close, and kissed her deeply. Now it was time to go back down that long avenue, which suddenly seemed to short.

Before she could take off, though, he grabbed her and swung her around by the waist. "Woop!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, then dropped her back onto her feet again, "I'm married!" he yelled, excitement and joy filling his voice.

The crowd erupted into screams and cheers as Alistair and Saraiah ran down the carpeted sidewalk towards the now-waiting carriage.

**

* * *

Part 9: On Bended Knee**

The story of the amulet had already begun to circulate amongst the crowd. It had stood out on her neck against all the finery, and it became an instant legend. It was one of the things that she would be remembered for, long after history had forgotten most of her other exploits.

The Princess Consort who wore the amulet the King gave her, even though it was old and broken. The Princess Consort, the Hero of Ferelden, who wore finery befitting the highest of nobility, but who wore the humblest amulet with the same grace and assurance.

That broken Chantry amulet, the simplest of gestures, worn on her wedding day out of purest, simplest love, became the icon of a united country. It was the beacon of hope for a better future.


	2. The Wedding Night

**Part 10: On Bended Knee**

While the populace discussed the amulet they would remember into the ends of history, Alistair and Saraiah left to make their own memory together—of an entirely different nature.

"Your dress is so beautiful, I almost don't want to take it off," Alistair told her. Then he grinned at her feigned pout. "Almost…"

He finished unbuttoning it and let it fall to the ground, pooling around her feet. The multitude of slips that made it billow out… just so… came next. Much to his frustration.

"Maker, do they do this just to inconvenience and frustrate men?" he asked.

"Definitely," Saraiah told him, deadpan.

"Really?" he asked.

She laughed at him, "No, Alistair. They do it so that you'll stand there during the wedding drooling on yourself thinking about getting it off of me."

"Oh," he said. "Was it that obvious?"

She chuckled again. "If it wasn't, dear, I would have been deeply offended."

"Oh, well, that's good, then, right?" the last slip dropped away, and he grasped her by the waist, easily lifting her out of the pile of clothes.

Then it was her turn, and she started to pull armor off of him, bit by bit, hampered by his grasping hands.

She slapped his hand away from her breast for the third time.

"What?" he said with a grin.

"I can't unbuckle this while you're doing that!" she protested—albeit half-heartedly.

"Well, that's what you get for wearing that contraption. It took me so long to get them off of you that I can't wait any longer!"

"You're impossible," she said, shaking her head with wry amusement.

"Of course I am. You wouldn't have married me otherwise, now would you?"

The breastplate clattered to the floor, and she arched an eyebrow in triumph. Until he grabbed a butt cheek and pressed her body against his.

**

* * *

Part 11: On Bended Knee**

It took her a while to get him out of his armor, mostly because he wouldn't leave her alone to just do it. They laughed and giggled as she struggled between fighting him off to get his armor off, and not getting so caught up in his touch that she forgot to finish it.

At last, though, they stood kissing as she dropped one last piece on the ground. Still kissing her, he walked her backwards toward the bed until she collapsed back onto it. She crab walked onto it as he followed her, until they were both fully on it.

Then he pounced, sliding his fingers into her hair and capturing her, tugging impatiently at the small bodice that kept her breasts away from his questing hands.

Eventually, frustration won out, and he stopped to look at what he was doing. "More contraptions? Is there no end to this?" He actually sounded irritated, and Saraiah couldn't help but giggle.

He humphed at her, dangling the thing as it finally came off. "I have won the day!" he said.

"Not yet," she told him, tugging him down again.

He pushed his legs between hers, and she gladly wrapped around him, linking her feet behind his broad, powerful back.

She slid her hand down, pulling and tugging at his the smallcloth he wore.

"Yeeees?" he drawled, his eyes sparkling as he looked down at her.

"Off!" she said.

"Oh, so demanding," he smirked.

She glowered, he laughed outright. "Okay, okay."

He stood and slipped them off, his erection springing up to stand proud from his body. "Happy now?"

"Getting there," she told him, her arms spread to draw him back into them.

He ignored them, grabbing her own remaining smallcloth from her hips and pulling them off quickly. Then he was back, the heat of his body burning her with delicious fire.

**

* * *

Part 12: On Bended Knee**

He leaned over though, pulling away from her after a deep kiss. Sliding his hand down her belly, he watched it as it went. "I could barely see you last time. This time, I want to see everything," he told her.

"What, there?" she asked, aghast.

"Yes," he said. "I won't, if you don't want me to, but I really want to see you."

"I… I guess it's only fair," she told him, trembling and afraid of what he'd think of her. It seemed wanton somehow, but she could deny him nothing.

His hand slid down to the curls nestled between her legs, and he slipped inside to feel her wetness. Then he moved so that he was looking at what his hands were fingers were doing.

She felt mortified, yet she also felt strangely aroused by what he was doing.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and she realized she wasn't breathing.

Letting out the breath in a swoop, she breathed, "Yes."

He ran his finger up and down, and brushed against that part of her that she knew so well—the part that made her go wild. She gasped and arched, and he raised an eyebrow to look at her. "I take it you liked that?"

He did it again, and she could barely groan her 'yes.'

She forgot her shyness as he grinned at her triumphantly.

"Now you look like the cat that caught the pigeon," she told him jokingly, echoing his mistaken usage of the old adage to Wynne.

"I feel like it, except that this is so much better, I think I feel sorry for the cat," he told her, going back to watching his fingers spread and tease at the pink skin between her legs.

She couldn't be still as he flicked and teased at her. She arched and curved and tried to stifle the sounds of pleasure that pushed past her lips without her permission.

"You're so beautiful like this. It takes my breath away to know I can do this to you," he told her.

* * *

**Part 13: On Bended Knee**

"I want to touch you, too," she told him.

He sighed, a suspiciously disappointed sound. "I suppose it's only fair," he echoed her, teasing her with her own words—telling her indirectly that he also felt shy and a bit uncomfortable.

He laid back down on the bed, and she knelt between his legs, stretching across his body to kiss him before trailing kisses down his body. He groaned and she smiled, enjoying having the same power to do to him what he'd done to her moments ago.

But she didn't linger, sitting up and looking at him, wrapping a hand around his erection. His indrawn breath, sharp and filled with pleasure, told her all she needed to know. She trailed her other hand up his leg, reaching down to fondle and explore the heavy scrotum hanging there.

It was all new to her. The first time together with him had been at camp, and they had simply had sex, with minimal exploring. Not this time.

This time, she wanted to know every part of him. She wanted to please him, to hear him moan as he had made her do.

She moved her hand experimentally up along his erection, but the skin was dry and she innately knew it was uncomfortable to do it that way. So she altered, holding on a bit more tightly so that his skin moved with her hand somewhat.

That had a much better effect as he arched up into her touch, his hands gripping the coverlet on the bed. "Maker's breath, I think you're going to kill me," he told her, his voice tight with pleasure.

**

* * *

Part 14: On Bended Knee**

She leaned forward then, on a wild and unbelievably improper impulse. She kissed him right on the top of his erection, and he groaned, calling her name in a strangled, desperate voice, "Saraiah!"

Startled, she looked up at him, to find him looking at her with a look of pure, unadulterated hunger. Her voice husky with lust, she told him, "I think you like that."

"You…" he said, his voice graveled and deep, "are definitely…" her hand moved and he arched and groaned, "…going to kill me with pleasure."

"Hmm," she said, leaning forward again, this time experimentally licking him, "and what a way to go, yeah?"

"Saraiah, I don't know how much more I can take," he said, panting.

"More of this?" she asked, licking again, pleased when he bucked towards her, thrusting against his will. She let her hand slide down, and licked around the top. He rewarded her with another low moan and a twitching thrust of his hips.

She teased him more, touching and tasting every part of him, from the bottom to the top. She was just running her tongue in a circle across the top again when he sat up and pushed her backwards, sliding between her legs.

"I can't take anymore," he told her. "I need you, now."

But he fumbled, trying to find his way inside her. She was so slippery, though, that he kept sliding away. If she hadn't been so desperate to have him inside her, it would have been funny.

Finally, she pushed his hand away and grasped him, guiding him into the right spot. He shoved home with a sigh of relief cut off by a moan of pure lust.

He thrust hard, then went faster. Saraiah was relived that this time, there was no pain, only pleasure. A pleasure that began to build in a familiar way…

Then she was crying his name as the pressure exploded over her, wrapping her in waves of intense pleasure that made her arch against him in uncontrollable spasms. His name gasped from her lips, and she registered dimly the surprised look on his face.

A look that quickly turned to one of pure pleasure as he followed her over the precipice, his penis throbbing as it emptied inside of her, filling her with tangible evidence of his love for her.

He whispered her name as he collapsed against her, careful not to crush her.

The weight of his body on her was the sweetest feeling she could imagine.

And it was hers for the rest of her life, however long or short that turned out to be.


End file.
